


a family of not quite geniuses

by orphan_account



Category: Arrested Development
Genre: Brother/Sister Incest, F/M, Happy Ending, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-02-10
Updated: 2007-02-10
Packaged: 2019-08-22 17:46:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16602653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: michael. lindsay. the bluths. secrets and lies and lies about secrets and lies about love. mexico. model home. manhattan. neither here nor there. arrivals and departures, a funeral, no wedding, the paparazzi, a bad lawyer, everything in between. in sum: a series of botched attempts at a happy ending (don't fret; they'll get there eventually).





	a family of not quite geniuses

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [a family of not quite geniuses](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/432218) by falseeeyelashes. 



‘everyone’s against me.’

‘it’s your fault, man.’

‘i know, but, dammit. i want this family to love me.’

(the royal tenenbaums)

 

* * *

 

"It’s too bad we did adopt you," Lucille says, mean smirk, and then adds with a strong note of disgust, "You and Michael are perfect for each other."

She laughs and finishes her cocktail in a swift gulp as her daughter watches on.

"Check, please," Lindsay says.

 

* * *

 

Insert title sequence with upbeat, kitschy music (a ukulele, perhaps) here.

**(this is where it starts)**

 

* * *

 

He leaves for Mexico.

She drinks a margarita in his name (and then three more in her own).

This story’s not over yet.

Actually — and all together now — it’s only just beginning.

 

* * *

 

Previously —

George, Sr., Michael and George Michael all hauled ass south of the border, somehow lost Cabo, and are now temporary residents of the town of ---. The name doesn’t matter; they can’t pronounce it (there might be a tilde somewhere in there).

(Inset: picture of George, Sr. and Michael in sombreros and eating tacos and George Michael with a stick pointed awkwardly at a piñata in the shape of a poorly constructed seal — at least that’s what we are assuming it to be).

With Lucille now behind bars, Buster calls the apartment home (cue video: Buster dancing through the apartment with a juicebox in hand — cut to Lucille, in pearls and full make-up, as well as an unattractive orange jumpsuit, grabbing a guard through the bars —

"I demand a martini, one olive, extra dry’ —

‘No touching!’ —

‘The service in this place…’).

Lindsay, Tobias and Maeby still reside in Balboa Heights in the model home as the model of the perfect family:

"I will not be ignored, Lindsay!" Tobias yells from the top of the stairs;

"Oh, go fuck yourself, you sad, pathetic, goddamned, flaming sack of — " (Maeby is nowhere to be found having dedicated herself to her work at Tantamount Studios).

And, GOB. Ann and GOB have continued on in their quest for love together, and through this, GOB has discovered the healing powers of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ — no footage found.

 

* * *

 

The ceiling fan breaks but doesn’t shut off and makes creaking noises and slow, drawn-out whines.

"I never wanted to be a Bluth," Lindsay whispers into an empty glass, elbows propped up on the countertop.

Maeby considers looking up the number for the Betty Ford Clinic.

 

* * *

 

There’s a boat and there’s the sea and there’s three generations of Bluth men onboard.

The sun rises, pink and red and pink and red (bad valentine sketched across the sky) and the waves are still and Michael plays with an empty water bottle and George Michael stands by his side.

"Not to, um, bring up this subject again, but…I still don’t really understand it, Dad. Why exactly Maeby and I shouldn’t date. I mean, I understand that we wouldn’t want to ruin the family or anything, but, well. Look at us. It’s kind of a mess already."

"George Michael, there’s just too much trouble brought into it when a man falls in love with his sister."

"But she’s my cousin."

"Yeah. That’s what I said."

"No, you said sister."

"No. I’m pretty sure I said cousin."

George Michael doesn’t say anything; he really doesn’t want to know.

(The sun rises, pink and red and pink and the old men by the shore — toothless, weather-beaten, a caricature — would say: red sky in morning, sailors’ warning).

 

* * *

 

There’s this thing — and someone on the television has won a brand new car; her crossword puzzle sits undone in her lap, pen not pencil, 16 down is _‘sunsetblvd’_ — and she can’t quite wrap her head around it.

She didn’t have to be a Bluth. The name stays sticky on her tongue, heavy in her mouth, a curse (a blessing?), and it didn’t have to be hers.

(She could have been a Sitwell, with her long blonde hair, her charming smile; let’s not be silly. What she means is, she could have been his and things like family wouldn’t have had to matter.

She’ll laugh a few minutes later, drop the pen, it’ll roll off her lap, and say: well, that’s just silly.  ~~She loves him because he _is_  her brother~~).

14 across is _‘marciamotherfuckingbrady.’_

 

* * *

 

Maeby comes to Mexico. She still works in film ( _their_  film) and still shouts ‘marry me!’ despite the age thing and the awkward laughter because it’s harder than they say to unlearn things like this (old dogs, new tricks, what a bitch).

She spots them drinking lemonade, picnic table in the square, chickens squawking, clucking at her ankles.

"George Michael? Uncle Michael? Pop Pop?" They greet her with — respectively — a wild grin, a fake smile and a look of utter confusion.

"Maeby!" George Michael yells as his father says, "What are — what are you doing here?"

"School trip," she lies (it’s too easy).

They don’t question it.

 

* * *

 

She drinks a lemonade with them and there are cameramen wandering about, talking about lighting and Donald Trump (or something).

Michael drums his fingers on the table and there’s a weird silence and George Michael’s earnest smile, and then he — her uncle — clears his throat.

"So, school trip, huh? That’s nice." She nods and he nods and he nods some more and this family is so weird sometimes. "And, uh. How’s your mom? How’s your mom doing?"

She should have known. Really. She should have known.

"You haven’t talked to your own sister?"

"She’s not my sister," he says quickly, almost like a knee-jerk reaction. There’s a pause and George Michael looks curiously at his father. "But, well, how is she?"

"She’s a mess. Par usual." She swallows down some more lemonade and the pulp sticks to her tongue. "Actually, she’s become a lot like Gangee."

"What? Overly critical and impossible to love?"

"Well. That, and she reeks of booze."

"Oh, Lucille," George, Sr. mutters and Maeby (safely) assumes he hasn’t heard a word of this conversation.

 

* * *

 

She arrives home and her father is singing show tunes from  _South Pacific_ and her mother is on the phone with a credit card company telling a certain employee where exactly he can take this bill and take this company and shove it.

They have Popsicles and a half-drained bottle of vodka in the freezer and an onion, leftover Thai food and an empty carton of orange juice in the fridge. Maeby mutters something that suspiciously sounds like a litany of curse words and slams the freezer door shut. The refrigerator slides back about six inches.

Maeby really, really, truly hates this family (most of the time).

 

* * *

 

Michael gets a call at 7:30 in the morning at a rundown Best Western hotel (they like to use this term loosely).

"Hola?" he mutters into the phone, pronouncing the ‘h.’

"Michael Bluth?" the voice says, and — ‘si’ — Michael answers sleepily. "You gone all native on us, buddy? Atta boy. Get you some of that down home, homegrown — " He’s not really listening anymore and the voice laughs, and — for the love of God — it’s Barry Zuckercorn.

"Barry?" Michael asks, sitting up in bed.

"At your service. I figured I should give you a call seeing as your mother has been released from prison."

"What?"

"Yeah. They let her out. Good behavior."

Michael knows this has to be a lie — and he says as much.

"Alright. You caught me. Actually, they were begging me to strike a deal with them." Apparently, and obviously ironically, Lucille Bluth was more trouble in jail than out of jail. (At the pleading of the warden, all video footage has been destroyed).

"Yeah. We’ll be back soon," he says (and you know the sound of this — ‘yeah, we’ll be back soon,’ we’ll step back on land, and, Michael Bluth, is that resignation or relief?).

George Michael snores in return; George, Sr. mutters about the banana stand as he rolls over.

"You better not be charging me an hour for this."

"Wouldn’t dream of it."

(He does).

 

* * *

 

He comes back (this is the first time). He comes back, at six o’clock one evening, and for a minute (catalog in her lap, mojito in her hand) it’s like he never left.

"Hi," she says.

He looks taken aback for a second, surprised, and there’s a garment bag folded over his arms, a suitcase in his hand. "Hi," he replies.

"You want a drink?"

"Yeah."

 

* * *

 

Dinner:

She stabs a green bean on her fork; halfway to her mouth she stops.

"I fucking hate you, you know," she says nonchalantly. She brings the fork to her mouth, bites down.

"Yeah. I guess I should have expected that," he says and she thinks he almost looks sorry (but she might just be imagining these things). She watches his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows.

 

* * *

 

Things they never talk about:

that Saturday afternoon when she walked into the master bedroom unannounced and found Michael with his pants at his knees and his cock in his hand (she had yelled "oh my God!" and he had come, hot and wet into his own hand, yelling her name in surprise);

the time they got hammered out of their minds and killed a bottle of vodka over the course of three hours (they had laid on the floor — rough carpeting — he had rolled over, his face meeting her stomach; she couldn’t breathe — he didn’t move, but held her hips: his hair felt soft beneath her fingertips);

the fact she’s not biologically his sister, and is, in fact, adopted;

that first day in June when he was home from his first year of college for the summer — ‘there’s money in the banana stand,’ his father had said — and Lindsay lay there by the pool wearing only a pair of bright pink string bikini bottoms (she had yelped when she realized he was there, spilled her pina colada — more rum than pina — on her tanned stomach, one arm covering herself; didn’t matter — he’d seen enough);

why he left them, why he left her, and (this is later, after this) why the hell he keeps coming back;

that summer spent in Mexico ( _this_  they absolutely never, under any circumstances, ever discuss).

 

* * *

 

There’s a party of course. A banner reads ‘Welcome Home, Mother!’ and it’s a mystery as to who made it.

(Don’t look so surprised. Lucille did).

 

* * *

 

George Michael and Maeby sit on the balcony, a plate of cookies between them.

"You know," she says, after a long period of silence, legs crossed Indian-style, hair mashed against the window. "I missed having you around here."

George Michael smiles quickly, tries not to, smiles again, laughs nervously and says, "Yeah, I know. I missed having you around…there."

 

* * *

 

They accidentally leave Maeby and George Michael locked out on the balcony all night (they don’t seem to mind). Michael and Lindsay return home. She’s drunk and so is he, but he drives anyway, crawling 10 mph under the speed limit, with Lindsay insulting him from the passenger seat (the word ‘pussy’ gets thrown around a lot).

They get home and she opens the front door and he kisses her. The front door is open and there’s that warm night air, that emptiness around them and he kisses her, she kisses him. He’s tanner now, his hair a little shaggier and she likes it. She likes it a lot.

His hand under her skirt, inching up and up and she wants to tell him — don’t you fucking stop, don’t you fucking —

"Anyone home?" Tobias calls.

 

* * *

 

Their father is back (George, Sr., three thousand dollar suit — come on! — and this is his show now) and Michael goes back to that parking space and back to that business and they all act like nothing has changed at all.

 

* * *

 

(They fuck in the kitchen).

"He has an audition," she says; she drinks water from a plastic cup and she doesn’t touch him, but she sidles up against him, her hip brushing his, and Michael nods.

It happens like this: They both go to speak at the same time, tripping over awkward starts to sentences and she lays a hand on his shoulder and says something along the lines of ‘no, you go ahead,’ and she keeps her hand there as he first says her name and then, ‘I don’t know what I’m doing.’

So she kisses him. Fingers curl and pull at his old t-shirt, stretching the neckline and there’s that initial gasp of surprise from him and then it’s his hands on her hips, wide splayed fingers, and they kiss.

 

* * *

 

What comes next: The hands on her hips move to her ass and they move against each other like this is something new (it’s not). Then it's missing articles of clothing, and her, propped against the countertop (not quite on it - height differences) and it's him between her legs, his eyes on her, his cock sliding in, tight cunt, deep groan of approval.

She hits her tailbone on the counter as she slips and she comes and her moaning echoes in the empty kitchen.

 

* * *

 

"That was fantastically inappropriate," Michael says.

 

* * *

 

Three weeks pass without further incident and just as it all begins to feel like the old —

He leaves.

(He says ‘Manhattan’ and ‘work’ and ‘George Michael’ all in one breath and the suitcases are wheeled down the downstairs once again and they forget to say good bye — once again).

 

* * *

 

This story goes farther back than Michael cares to remember.

**(this is the flashback portion of our story - )**

 

* * *

 

Michael is born and the day is —

No, not that far back.

 

* * *

 

Michael is twenty.

He goes to Mexico with Lindsay for the summer. Lucille and George, Sr. are more antagonistic towards each other than usual, throwing words around like ‘divorce’ and ‘extramarital affairs,’ and Buster is a pawn in the game (moreso on Lucille’s side than their father’s) and GOB is living with one girlfriend or another or somehow kind of both. He comes home from college; they decide to leave.

Lindsay leans across the counter, talking to the clerk at the front desk, telling her in cobbled together English and Spanish she picked up from Spanish soap operas that she and Michael need a room.

 

* * *

 

He wonders if they’ve both been planning this all along.

They enter the room and she drops her bag on her bed and turns to face him, hip cocked, hair in her face and it might just be possible that they took her car and drove to Mexico (note left behind on the end table in the foyer; Buster will find this and will instantly forget to pass the message along — nevertheless, their whereabouts are never questioned) for a reason as simple as sex.

 

* * *

 

The first night and of course they get drunk and drink too much at a local bar and clink half-empty beer bottles together and ‘It’s Mexico,’ she breathes into his ear, breath sickly sweet and his pulse too high.

( ~~He’s always been a little bit in love with her.~~ )

This is the night when they sleep together for the first time. Neither of them remembers it well.

It’s just —

She kissed him, pressed against their hotel room door, and the ridges of the key dug into his palm as he squeezed and he woke up the next morning naked, no blankets, and long blonde hair across collarbone.

 

* * *

 

They listen to old Rolling Stones music that inexplicably plays on the Mexican radio, sandwiched between a station of old mariachi songs and another with almost recent Spanish pop.

She’s wet and the sheets smell old and musty and he gasps, ‘oh, God, Lindsay,’ against her neck, sliding two fingers in (she’s so wet, she’s so wet and it’s because of him, it’s because of him and that’s too much — too much to think about; he’ll come right now — and his thumb skims her clit and she holds his hand against her, squirms, moans quietly).

He kisses her along her neck, up below her ear, across her jawline, wet, messy kisses and she tastes like sweat and faded, expensive perfume, like something else, something familiar and she has a hand holding him by the hair, fingernails against his scalp and his other hand holds her hip, fingers running over the curve of the bone.

She’s strangely quiet, just light pants and heavy breathing (this is embarrassing: he’s heard her going at it before — bedrooms next door to each other — and there were always those ridiculous, loud keening noises coming from her, keeping him up — in more ways than one — all night) and she comes.

He rolls over on top of her, fingers still working inside of her, and she throws her arms around his neck, scratching the nape of his neck, fingers back in his hair.

He reaches ( _oh god_  — wet fingers) and it takes him a second to unwrap the condom and she watches him: wrapper dropped to the floor, the quick breath, sliding the condom down —

"Oh," she says, soft, tiny, against his mouth and he swallows, and she says ‘oh’ like suddenly this all makes sense or something Michael’s just not seeing and his mouth feels dry and she’s so wet and so tight, and finally, foreheads meeting, his hips start moving, he exclaims, " _Jesus_ ," his breath ruffling her hair.

She comes like it’s a surprise, like she wasn’t expecting it: Her back arching off the bed, her heart pounding, one hand running through, clutching his hair — his name drawn out into too many syllables.

Later, John Lennon sings. The walls here are yellow and the pictures on the wall almost macabre. ‘It’s Mexico,’ she’ll say, propped against the pillows. ‘It’s Mexico.’

 

* * *

 

She smokes a blunt and passes it to him, smoke lingering in the air, a slight smile on her face. He inhales deeply and coughs and she laughs at him, telling him to try it again, and he does, holding the smoke in his chest then, exhaling on a slight cough.

 

* * *

 

A whole day passes where she doesn’t put on any clothes, and, well, either does he and they lie there together in the twin bed, comforter pushed onto the floor, listening to the tiny clock radio, getting high and drinking their way through a bottle of cheap booze.

(This is all so un-Michael Bluth behavior — doing drugs, getting drunk,  _fucking his sister_  — but, strangely, only a bedside table lamp on, Lindsay sprawled across his chest, it doesn’t feel that wrong).

 

* * *

 

She hums against him and it’s strange, her mouth open against his bare chest, her hand circling his cock, slow, lazy, loose grip, and her tongue paints a line down her chest and she hums quietly to herself, the sound vibrating up and through him.

"You taste salty," she murmurs into his mouth, a smile on her lips. He quirks an eyebrow, then gasps (her grip tightening, her rhythm more defined) and kisses her.

(He’s slowly understanding, each passing day and moment and fuck between the two of them, that this, this in a Mexican hotel room, is what all those people — the poets, the writers, his mother’s soap operas — are all talking about.

This is the closest these two will ever be until roughly seventeen years come to pass and suddenly the entire Bluth family is stationed in Balboa Heights again).

They never actually say things like ‘I love you’ and ‘I love you, too,’ but it’s there, Michael would say. She’ll look at him like that and he’ll want to kiss her like this and it’s there.

They’re home before the month of June is out.

**(end scene)**

 

* * *

 

"Hey, Mom," Maeby asks. "Have you ever, you know, been in love with someone you shouldn’t be?"

"What? No. Of course not. Never. Why, why would you ask that? Did someone say something? Who? Oh my God, did Mom hire Gene again?"

"No…never mind. It was just hypothetical."

 

* * *

 

Michael works in an office building, tall and made of steel with windows lacking a view (save for more of the same: the buildings, tall and made of steel).

They’ve almost forgiven him for being a Bluth.

Long blonde hair gives him pause for a double take. It’s embarrassing (he misses her).

 

* * *

 

The morning is cold, with discolored slush on the ground and slow falling flakes in the air. Michael Bluth has forgotten his gloves, and, of course he has (winters in California — his California — aren’t all that different from the remaining three seasons: cooler for certain, but no need for wool socks or flannel sheets or giant parkas or snow tires).

Gray scarf wrapped around his neck, venti Starbucks coffee in hand (cream, no sugar) he dodges a taxi and mutters ‘fucking son of a bitch’ under his breath.

 

* * *

 

See, there’s a story here. The gray scarf: An under-appreciated Christmas present from Lindsay too many years before. She had lived in Boston and he had worked for his father — nice work there, pardner — and the family’s presents had arrived without Lindsay and Tobias and Maeby in a big UPS box, and the wrapping paper had dancing reindeer with goofy smiles and underneath all the Bluths found varying degrees and articles of winter outerwear.

He guesses that because for her — in Boston — it’s all cold, below freezing with tall, dirty snow drifts that all their winters must be the same: cold, below freezing with tall, dirty snow drifts.

(He unwrapped a gray scarf and chuckled — almost 60 degrees out, sun in the sky — and his mother had held up a — faux — fur muff and said — ‘what the hell am I supposed to do with  _this_?’)

He doesn’t know why he kept it, but —

wind whips around the corner and he’s kind of sad there are no clapboard men, ‘the end is near’ —

he’s kind of glad he did.

 

* * *

 

Lindsay calls Michael’s office, her breath caught in her throat as the phone rings and she wasn’t ever this nervous back in junior high when things like brief phone calls were all that mattered (she always knew they’d say ‘yes’ in return).

"Hello, Michael Bluth’s office. This is Jan speaking."

She swallows. "Yeah, hi. This is Lindsay Bluth. Lindsay Bluth-Fünke, sorry. His sister. Michael’s sister. Is Michael — is he there?"

"I’m sorry he’s in a meeting. Can I take a message?"

"No. No. Uh, thank you."

She hangs up. She didn’t know what she was going to say anyway.

 

* * *

He has meetings all day and men shake his hand and look at him with something like respect; he smiles more and the lines around his eyes and mouth stretch, familiar.

Only the lamp is on in his office when he returns, his secretary gone, a note on his office door (pink post-it note): your sister called — no message.

He closes the office door behind him, sits at his desk. He loosens his tie, turns on the television, and — yes — they’re on  _The O’Reilly Factor_  again. One of the ten ridiculous items of the day.

(Uncle Oscar has been brought up on charges of drug possession and paraphernalia. This is something like routine).

He hits mute and closed captioning clicks on and a family picture appears on the screen. They spell Lindsay’s name with an ‘e’ instead of an ‘a’ and he chuckles to himself and in the picture his arm is around her shoulders.

He doesn’t call her back.

 

* * *

 

She goes on a date. She’s still married, she’s still a mess, and she’s still in denial (Michael’s still in New York). She goes on a date.

His teeth are too white in that false, over-bleached kind of way and he takes her to a trendy restaurant that serves all its food in a liquid, sort of soup-like form. It’s, in a word, disgusting.

He kisses her and his teeth are smooth and they both move in that practiced, rehearsed not quite interested rhythm not quite lovers use when they’re only interested in trying to get off.

(She doesn’t; it never makes it that far — for either of them. There’s this kiss and then panic and suddenly she’s bolting for the door).

She puts her shoes on back, and he runs a finger down her spine. It’s uncomfortable.

"So, you’re married, right?" he says even though it’s obvious he already knows the answer (it was Tobias after all that introduced them — ‘hi, this is my wife Lindsay’). She nods.

"That’s hot," he says and she sighs and grabs her purse.

It’s really not.

 

* * *

 

A year and four months and a merger gone sour he arrives at home a quarter after eight or so with a premade deli sandwich in his hand that tastes old already. He throws it away and checks his messages.

A solicitor, a client, his son. He drinks milk from the carton and feels like a rebel for a fraction of a second. Then —

"Michael? Michael? It’s Lindsay. Dad’s dead. Come home." It’s just that, a brief message, echoing in the empty apartment.

In the dark kitchen he throws the milk carton in the trash and wishes their father had taught them a lesson on how to leave a proper message; it might have been useful.

 

* * *

 

Meanwhile: Tobias accidentally gets his big break and is called something of a star.

 

* * *

 

Tobias is on the cover of  _The Advocate_  in a pair of cut-offs, his arms folded across his chest. ‘There are dozens of us!’ the byline reads. ‘Tobias Funke strips down the truth about never-nudes.’

"He’s like Cher, or something," Lindsay says. "Only less attractive and with no talent. Or wigs."

Tobias’s TV show gains something of a cult gay following, what with the double entendres and accidental, unintentional innuendo.

He’s a superstar (or something like it) overnight.

He even gets a People’s Choice Award (at the podium: ‘I’m an actor!’ he proclaims; in the audience Lindsay shakes her head in disgust).

 

* * *

 

He has their new address written on a cocktail napkin.

Their house looks something like Liberace’s wet dream — sheer opulence with chandeliers and glass and fountains and rich velvet everywhere. He mutters ‘Jesus Christ’ under his breath as Tobias — clad in a white bathrobe with gold embroidery — leads him through the entry way.

"Good timing there, Michael. The lady of the house and I have nary just returned from an industry event. A fete, if you will."

"Oh, yeah?"

"It was quite the titillating affair, I daresay."

They stand awkwardly for a second, and finally Michael says, "Where’s, uh, where’s Lindsay?"

Tobias smiles. "Her bedroom. Upstairs, fourth door on the right."

 

* * *

 

Lindsay’s room is cold yet fashionable, with too much black and red and gray, with too many hard edges (this isn’t her at all). He closes the door behind himself and she’s asleep, sprawled out across the bed in a silver evening gown, pale skin and red lips.

He sits on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping below his weight. He reaches out, nudges her in the bare left shoulder — "hey, Lindsay; it’s me" — and he nudges her again and she awakens with a whine of "what?"

"Hi," she says with the flutter of her eyelashes, still sleepy (her voice cracking on the end of the word), her fingers wrapping around his in some strange kind of greeting.

He squeezes back, unsure of what else to do, and says, "hi," softly in return.

 

* * *

 

"You should know," she says, propping herself up on one elbow, "Dad’s not really dead. He just went to South America, you know, down to Portugal."

"The fuck?"

"I know. But they’re having a mock funeral this weekend."

"Why — why would you — god damnit, Lindsay. He did this to us  _again_?"

He stands up, hand in his hair, pacing the room. "Why didn’t you tell me this from the beginning? I mean, I’ve been grieving a man who’s not even dead, but probably damn well should be!"

She springs up into a sitting position, her legs spread out before her, rag doll-like. "So, this is my fault? Whatever, Michael. When I called you I thought he was dead too. If you haven’t noticed, I’m generally the last one around here to learn the truth when it actually fucking matters."

He stops pacing and looks at her. Her hair’s a mess, her make-up’s smudged, her dress is wrinkled.

"You’re still pissed about the whole adoption thing?"

She flops back against the pillows, her arms outstretched. "Of course I am, Michael." She sighs. "Among other things," and she lets the subject drop at that. He quirks an eyebrow and she giggles. "I’ve become a goddamned Greek tragedy."

He doesn’t argue with her. He laughs instead.

So does she.

(Tobias has always been better at the melodrama than Lindsay).

 

* * *

 

He holds her hand in the cemetery. He’s not sure why — their father’s not really dead — but they wear black all the same and he gets it, halfway through the ceremony (and they’ve done this before, haven’t they?) that he’s really not doing this for her sake.

 

* * *

 

"You didn’t have to leave," she says, slumped against the wall, wearing only a black bra, slipped halfway down her shoulder, her breasts bare all the same. Her legs are long and pale.

"Yeah," is all he says, and he can’t look at her (not now); his shirt hangs open and it’s missing a button. Her lips are red and swollen and it’s the worst thing imaginable because he wants to fuck her again already.

"Either time," she adds unnecessarily after a moment’s pause.

The Toile wallpaper of the bathroom is something kind of dizzying.

 

* * *

 

He brushes his teeth and washes his face, wipes the condensation off the mirror. Hands bracing the porcelain sink, he stares down the drain, then up at his reflection.

"I’m a good guy," he says, then sighs. "I’m a good guy."

 

* * *

 

Rumors begin floating that Tobias is carrying on a secret, illicit affair with famous actor ----- (name cannot be released at this time due to impending lawsuit).

He’s not.

The paparazzi stake out the house anyway.

(Someone forgot to tell Michael and Lindsay this).

 

* * *

 

Set-up: There’s a pool and a lounge chair, a Saturday night, and Michael and Lindsay.

There’s this line of dialogue:

"Fuck me," Michael pants, his hands trying to angle her hips.

This is really all you need to know.

(The morning papers will fill in the rest).

 

* * *

 

‘Bluth Family Scandal!’ it says on the cover of three tabloids, the local papers and in the gossip pages of various rags.

They’re on  _The O’Reilly Factor_  again.

(They could have published far worse photographs.)

 

* * *

 

After the scandal breaks: in an attempt at a lawsuit over invasion of privacy — among other things — they try to hire Wayne Jarvis (Attorney at Law) but somehow end up with Barry Zuckercorn.

"Incest is best! Put your sister to the test!" Michael shakes his head a little and coughs. "Too soon?" Barry asks.

 

* * *

 

There is Lucille Bluth’s apartment —

"Thank God your father isn’t alive to see this…" Michael jams his hands in his pocket and takes a deep breath.

"Mom. Dad’s not dead."

"That’s right. Well, thank God he headed south to Portugal and can’t see this mess."

"Am I the only member of this family that’s ever actually seen a map?"

She spills half her martini with a wide hand gesture. "I mean, you couldn’t have at least kept it behind closed doors?" Buster springs up at this, indignant.

"Don’t let her stand in the way of your love! Don’t let her, Michael! You can [bleep] any [bleep] any [bleep]ing time you [bleep]ing want!"

"Yeah, thanks there, Buster."

"Anytime, brother."

"You’re tapping that?" GOB asks Lindsay, on the couch, who wisely chooses not to answer. "Damn, you could have done so much better. I mean, you could have done me."

She rolls her eyes and doesn’t reply (once again) and Michael stares aghast at him.

Lupe pretends she can’t understand a word of this (and really, it’s not a language issue, but she can’t understand any of this. At all).

 

* * *

 

The end:

Tobias spends faster than he earns, the show gets old, the world realizes their mistake and suddenly they’re broke. Again.

In sum: They all end up back in the model home.

"Now this," Tobias says, "this is how a family should be!"

(Except, maybe not. The father figure is hiding out in the Amazon — show image of George, Sr. having a tea party with three natives; the matriarch is an alcoholic; Michael is fucking his sister (adopted) and is probably (definitely) in love with her; George Michael and Maeby are cousins and embarking on a burgeoning (we use this term loosely) love affair; Buster is a self-described ‘monster;’ and GOB is desperately considering seeking Portugal on the wrong continent).

 

* * *

 

"I don’t do this very well," she whispers into his collar, the words muffled against the starched fabric and he doesn’t ask her to repeat it.

"I know," he says, and there’s a smile there.

She laughs.

 

* * *

 

They all play Clue that night, Tobias cackling in an over-the-top laugh, GOB trying to cheat and not really succeeding, George Michael trying not to look at Maeby and not really succeeding and nothing’s really changed. Except, well, when the game is over and the kitchen is kind of cleaned, it’s Michael and Lindsay, in the master bedroom, with each other.

No one says a thing about it.

(Except GOB, who shakes his head and mutters, "The Bluths…" — like he isn’t one of them — before falling asleep on the couch).

 

* * *

 

"It’s too bad we did adopt you," her mother starts —

and it’s, "really, Mother; I was a Bluth to begin with," Lindsay says.

She smiles.

"Check, please?"

 

* * *

 

**(this is the happy ending)**


End file.
